Cod Liver Oil and Other Unpleasantries
by Wotcherer
Summary: Namely Khrushchev's backside and a nasty bout of flu.
**A/N: A little something I wrote ages ago but just remembered about that will hopefully make a small dent into tiding us over during the hiatus.**

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Nonnatus would always have a pull, and was always welcoming in situations such as the one that had arisen this evening. She was a stickler for bike safety, for rather understandable reasons, and she poignantly understood the dangers of riding one. But quite how her shoelace had managed to wrap itself so tightly around her peddle and render her attempt at a usually graceful dismount an utter failure, with her tumbling to a heap in the floor and her bike on top of her, she'd never know. No one had the audacity nor the vulgarity to make fun of her for her static little accident, but she knew it was rather laughable.

Thus, she had stayed for dinner, as the fussing over her grazed knee and the tutting over her laddered tights from Nurse Crane's corner, had gone on a tad too long for her to get home to Delia in time for their supper. Besides, she was rather overdue a catch up with her Nonnatun friends – they both were, but it had so happened it was Delia's day off. She had been feeling under the weather anyway, and once she'd mentioned this, she was packed off with some dinner for her, a bottle of cough mixture and some cod liver oil – Phyllis swore by the latter. She was also packed off without her bike, so was in for a long walk.

She hoped that Delia wouldn't be too disappointed that their evening in had been cut short – they were planning maybe to pop out somewhere for a quick drink if she was feeling better, but it was much too late now she had finally got away. She supposed it was her own fault – not checking in nearly enough meant that they had rather a lot to talk about, not to mention that since she'd been on the receiving end of the most recent correspondence with a newly-wed Trixie, they had all wanted to hear about that. She had however, left out many of the details of her dearest friend's honeymoon, which she suspected Trixie would omit in the postcard she had mentioned she was sending to the nunnery. Not that she'd been too gratuitous, just perhaps a little more forthcoming than she'd be with her friends of the cloth.

The walk was pleasant but just a tad too long without her usual companion to help her pass the time, and she wish she'd convinced them she was absolutely fine to ride home, but as she began to notice a slight limp in her step and the growing stinging sensation radiating from her knee, she knew it was for the best. She put her key in the door and head up the stairs, setting her care-package down and her hat down on the kitchen countertop, tackling the top button of her uniform.

"Deels?"

No answer, though she noticed an empty can of soup and a half finished loaf of bread on the sideboard, and sighing to herself, she tidied both away. Perhaps she was asleep, and concerned, she head for the bedroom door. The short journey was interrupted though, by the sight of Delia's dozing form stretched out on the sofa in a perfect fit. She smiled fondly, brushing some hair from her eyes and frowning when she felt the heat radiating from her. The brunette stirred gently, her fingers twitching by her face and the other hand drawing the blanket over her shoulders as she shuddered tightly.

"Hello, Pats." Her voice was hoarse, coming out in barely above a whisper, and she reached for the glass of water on the coffee table that Patsy had perched herself on. She passed it to her, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead.

"I thought you said you were on the mend." Patsy said, unimpressed that Delia had tried to downplay her illness like she always did. She never wanted Patsy to fuss – well, it wasn't the fussing she minded, it was the incessant worrying over a little cold here, a bout of flu there. They both knew Patsy had seen the slightest of fevers turn deadly in days, fatalities even from illnesses lesser than malaria and typhoid. And though in her job she was calm, purposeful, always feeling in control – when such a thing struck Delia, she couldn't help but panic.

Delia rubbed her eyes, shoving the cushion she'd been using as a makeshift pillow aside and lifting her head, her invitation clear enough. Patsy sat in the spot made for her, allowing the other woman to rest in her lap whilst she ran her fingers through her slightly mussed hair. "I was." She croaked. "I think you should call Nonnatus, and tell them I can't be doing rounds tomorrow. I wouldn't want to make anyone sick."

"Is that the only reason why you think you shouldn't be going to work?" She chastised.

Delia rolled her eyes playfully, "Fine – and because I need to rest and be subject to the grueling rules and routine of the formidable Nurse Mount, who was supposed to have her day off too tomorrow, but might as well wear her uniform because she's going to lord around the flat like its her ward and I'm her patient."

Patsy scoffed, "If that's what I get for caring." She ran her fingers down Delia's arm, pausing when she shivered again.

"It's fine, I'm just a little cold."

"Contrary to what I can feel. There should be steam coming off you with a temperature like this."

"It'll pass." Delia assured her, hearing her tone slipping into concern that ran deeper than what it should for a nasty case of the flu, a tone that spoke of disaster in every minor illness, septicemia from every cut and scrape.

"I almost forgot, if your up to eating anything more than la soupe de Baxters then I have an actual meal for you, and cough syrup…and some cod liver oil, but I'm not going to make you take that. Just tell Phyllis that you did and that it fixed you instantly, otherwise she'll be terribly disappointed."

"Are you making fun of my cooking skills again?" Delia asked dryly. "I just fancied something easy on my throat."

"Not at all, darling." She smirked. "Now let me at least get you the cough mixture."

"Who says I don't want the cod liver oil too?" Delia teased, pouting slightly as Patsy got up.

"Well do you?"

"Absolutely not, Pats." Patsy returned with a tablespoon and the cough mixture in hand, and read the label on the back. "Oh don't be silly, its over the counter stuff. You don't have to read that."

"You're not allergic to-"

"Oh stop it, you."

"Alright! I was just making sure." She poured some into the spoon and held it out.

"You've got to be joking."

"Open wide."

"You're going to spill it all over the sofa, give it here." She held out her hand, but Patsy refused to relent now, as a matter of pride.

"Here comes the airplane." Patsy could barely hold back her snigger, as Delia scowled at her and parted her lips. "Yes, yes, I know. I'm absolutely beastly."

"Ugh. What's it supposed to taste of?" She wrinkled her nose, reaching for the bottle. "Blackcurrant my arse – tastes like old leather."

"Nurse Busby! What would your patients say?" Patsy feigned outrage, when really she was quite endeared by Delia's occasional foul mouth – she'd not been brought up to swear under any circumstances, and had very rarely heard anyone curse until sixth or seventh year at school.

"The same, or worse if I gave them something so vile." Delia remarked. "Come to bed now, Pats." She managed to sit herself up, rubbing at her temples. "I know I'm not the most appealing prospect, but I really need some sleep and a good cwtch." She wiped her nose with her handkerchief as if to underline her point.

"Hmm, you're right. I think I'll go and explore one of my many other prospects, actually." Patsy mock-pondered.

"Patience Mount, you are awful." Delia turned as she breezed back toward the sofa after putting the offensive cough mixture and spoon away. "…Are you limping?"

"Oh, yes. Its not that bad, I promise. Funny story actually." Patsy began, as she held out her hands to Delia and pulled her up off the sofa.

"Oh, Pats. Your nylons."

"Ruined, I know. See, I fell off my bike when-" When she saw the look on the other woman's face, she realised she should have prefaced that statement with some sort of disclaimer that it wasn't at speed and she hadn't been hit by a vehicle of any sort, but it was too late.

"You what?!" Delia sunk back down onto the sofa, her hands slipping from Patsy's and covering her chest as she was overcome by panic.

"Oh, no, Delia. It wasn't like that. Barbara and I had pulled up outside Nonnatus and I went to climb off, but my shoelace got caught and I took a tumble. More embarrassing than anything really. That's all it was." Patsy sat down next to her, feeling terrible for scaring her, for being so careless. She rubbed her thigh, trying to catch her hollow looking gaze. As if Delia's day hadn't been bad enough, she thought to herself.

Delia drew in a heavy breath, "Never start any statement with 'I fell off my bike' again, Pats. Christ, you gave me a fright."

"I know, I'm sorry." Patsy bit her lip, kissing her temple and tangling their fingers together to rest in Delia's lap. "Bed then?"

"Mhmm." She was still a little quiet, but she knew Delia well enough to be sure that she'd bounce back in no time, and she had barely returned her toothbrush to the cup on the shelf above their sink before she had recovered sufficiently to watch with shameless intensity as Patsy undressed. "If only I didn't love you so much that I would never want you to feel this ghastly." She shook her head forlornly. "That's not to say I don't love to kiss you, just that your health matters to me slightly more."

"Only slightly? I'm so very flattered." Patsy smirked. "And I'm so very nearly running out of pajamas, Delia. You have your own, and you're already wearing bedclothes." She sighed, as the brunette began rummaging through her drawers and produced a large checkered shirt.

"I've been in these all day, and I'm going to be wearing pajamas for some time if the way I feel now is anything to go by." Delia retorted. "And you? Run out of pajamas? Please, Patsy – Lyndon B. Johnson would kiss Khrushchev's backside on global television before that ever happens."

"Beautifully illustrated." Patsy shuddered at the image. "No wonder you and Sister Monica Joan get along so well."

"Let me have a look at your leg before-"

"Any excuse, isn't it, darling?" Patsy teased, though she knew she was only doting. She was having none of it, not whilst Delia was the one who was sick. "I promise, it was just a little graze, didn't even need a bandage – might have a bruise in the morning, but that's about it. Now get into bed, I thought you were cold."

"I am cold." Delia followed her lead in throwing back the covers, and crawled underneath the duvet, pressing into her side. "Will make a change for you to have some bruises that you only have yourself to blame for instead of getting all het up at me about it."

"Necklines are getting lower by the day, and all I ask is that you allow me to keep up with the times. But no, I have to dress like a Victorian because of you."

"All part of my careful plan that no one gets to ogle you but me, my darling." Delia wound an arm around her waist. "Oh cripes – I forgot to get water." Her voice was noticeably rougher than earlier.

"Let me." Patsy stood up, and was back in a tick. By the time she was though, Delia was dozing lightly, stirring only to rest her head on Patsy's chest. She smiled, reaching for the lamp and disturbing her as little as possible, mentally reminding herself that even if she was due a lie in tomorrow, she had to get up early to call Nonnatus and tell them Delia was too unwell to work, and she had to post her reply to Trixie, but most of all she had to spoil Delia as much as she possibly could. Maybe get her some flowers, and getting some chocolate down her would be a good idea too, but most definitely no cod liver oil.


End file.
